


Shame's To Share

by TeaCub90



Series: be good to the lad that loves you true [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Appreciate the ones you love, Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Found Family, Guilty John, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 03:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20351656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Thanks for looking after me.’





	Shame's To Share

**Author's Note:**

> It's Fanfic Appreciation Day. One thing I always love about fanfic is the ability to spot problematic paradoxes in canon, address them and if possible, fix them. Sadly, Series 4 required a lot of fixing, but it meant being able to do so in all sorts of wonderful ways. Another fandom has left me with a slight obsession for Housman, whose poem 'Shake Hands' serves as an inspiration due to its precision and hopeful ending and I do love writing one-shots of life in 221b.  
As per, Sherlock is not mine and this has been unbeta'ed.

* * *

‘Thankyou,’ John murmurs one day, out of the blue.

It’s not quite how he means to say it. Not really if it’s how he _should_ say it; Sherlock deserves more than that, something beyond a simple utterance of a single word – by rights he should be awarded with honours of the highest, like those bestowed upon the bravest of soldiers; a shiny medal, an eye-catching plaque, a valiant statue, a hundred fireworks for the hurts he’s suffered or at least a really nice box of chocolates.

John can’t provide much of the above and he knows Sherlock, who accepted the Knighthood out of spite and potential use for future cases, would hate each and every one of them – well, maybe not the chocolates so much, and Sherlock has a bit of a weakness for truffles, the posh berk, and, well. John can provide, as much as he can. He can try; is determined to _try._

And that’s what this is all about, really; that’s what brings them here, one morning six months after all that Everything – like emerging from a long, dark tunnel, John looks back, squinting in the welcome light and wonders how the hell he got through it all; how _they_ got through – Rosie wandering around the flat, dragging her toys everywhere, the lounge of 221b looking as if the Holmes brothers personally brought out Toys R Us just for her and Sherlock nodding and listening attentively to everything she says; scooping her up when she needs a nappy change, letting her smear honey all over his chin. She has Buzzy the bee under her arm wherever she goes (Sherlock spoils her terribly) and has been busy pushing Monkey and Ralphie the stuffed huskey along in her pram, tailing Sherlock like a little blonde hawk, eyes fiercely intent, never letting him out of her sight.

She’s not the only one.

They get half an hour of silence when she crashes out on her bed of bears (really, Sherlock _and _Mrs Hudson spoil her terribly) and that’s when John says it, lingering close to Sherlock when he’s filling the teapot – started making his own tea now, blessed be – and blinks at John, hovering at his shoulder. John, for his part, smiles sheepishly; finds he can’t stay his gaze and looks away. 

‘Just – thankyou,’ he says again, because the word feels good on his tongue, feels right; feels like a beautiful thing to say, even if he’s currently saying it while staring really hard at the sugar caddy and making a mental note to buy sweeteners, because, you know, health. ‘For everything,’ he nods into the lounge, at his daughter, spark-out. ‘For – for bearing with me.’

He wants to say _for forgiving me,_ nearly says it, but something like propriety, because he needs that, needs that _back,_ stays him. He is sure, so sure, that Sherlock _has _forgiven him, feels safe to call 221b home again, to laugh with Sherlock, to see the corners of all his all-knowing eyes crinkle in a smile, which happens more and more often these days; is always ready to race after him on a case provided there’s someone to look after Rosie, has tea and takeaway with him every Friday once they’ve put her to bed – but. To say it out loud seems…wrong. _Assumptive._ As if John is laying claim to something that isn’t his.

He won’t tempt it. He held the whole Barts’ thing over Sherlock for a long time, after all. He’ll take his due; pull back a little; learn his lesson and let the tables turn, because it’s _his_ turn to show Sherlock how sorry _he_ is.

And John _is _sorry; he is so sorry, right down to his bones - it comes back to bite him in quiet moments when he’s looking at Rosie, at Sherlock and wondering just how the hell he deserves them; how the hell he could have been so much of a bastard to tear them apart, the way he did. To try and tear_ Sherlock_ apart.

But tearing himself apart with it – the very least he deserves – won’t fix things, won’t keep Rosie fed and washed, or prevent Sherlock from going off on his own to do something catastrophically idiotic; a thousand apologies, a thousand _sorrys_, won’t turn back the clock. No matter how many times John says it, it would always just be another drop in an already Mediterranean-sized puddle of milk for the pair of them to slip and slide over. All John can do now is upright the bottle and do his absolute best to _keep_ it upright. Keep _all _of them upright, he thinks, with a rueful glance at the rationed wine-store on the high shelf, locked away; Mrs Hudson has the key.

‘Thanks for looking after me,’ he adds with a murmur, feels a lump in his throat, blinks rapidly. ‘Looking after us.’

Because, honestly? That’s what it comes down to, in the end. That’s what all this is for; _has_ been for, these steady days of noise and endless toys for John to trip over, voices that miss him in the night. This is what Sherlock made so many sacrifices for; died for; came back for. For John, for Mary, for little Rosie. He knows that now.

And frankly, John’s had enough. Enough of driving blind; of pushing through life, pushing people away, in a reckless, oblivious rage. Enough of seeing his best friend so deeply hurt, both by him and by the world they’re against.

Sherlock processes; blinks. There’s a moment of silence in the kitchen where the two of them hover on some unknown precipice; John wonders if he’ll be able to hold on and wills himself to hold back, give his friend the time he needs.

Then Sherlock blinks, a thoughtful flutter like a clever butterfly; shifts himself back into gear; his face is soft, so incredibly soft, with something John hasn’t seen for a long time and simply can’t measure. One of his hands, stilled so briefly in his contemplation, slides a full mug of tea across the counter towards John.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says, a simple thing, a _kind _thing, just as fulsome as the smile he’s suddenly wearing; wide and wonderful, happy. John chuffs and picks up the mug, wraps his hands around the welcome heat as an anchor as much as anything blows softly, quietly overcome with it.

‘Should’ve said it sooner,’ he murmurs, making himself look up. ‘Ages ago, really. Long time ago.’ He’s repeating himself a little now, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind; simply rotates himself to stand close to John, the two of them side-by-side as they are in all things now – in puzzle-solving and criminal-catching and raising Rosie – and sadly, weren’t always before.

They’re here now, John thinks – _realises,_ as he stares briefly down at their feet, the mismatched socks that speak of the duties of fatherhood, and nudges Sherlock’s arm with his own, feeling utterly humbled and more than incredibly lucky as he looks back up into that gentle gaze, those piercing eyes creased with completely unapologetic joy as he gazes down at him (and why should joy _ever _be apologetic, when it comes from such a good, great man?) and it means so much.

It means _everything._

_*_


End file.
